With my great-hearted brother on her deck: I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown,

The time we stood at our mother's knee; That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the field one summer night

We were together, half afraid

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And, over the haystack's pointed top, All of a tremble, and ready to drop

The first half-hour the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax field grew,Dead at the top,- just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads when we came to play

In its handbreadth of shadow day after day.

Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,— The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat:

The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,

But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?

If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me;

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed:
But that's no matter,- paint it so.

The eyes of our mother take good heed -
Looking not on the nest full of eggs,

Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies, And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know,

That you on the canvas are to repeat

Things that are fairest, things most sweet,

Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree,

The mother, the lads, with their bird, at her knee;

But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!

High as the heavens your name I'll shout,

If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

THOMAS MOORE

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. Thomas Moore was born in Dublin in 1779. He was a most prolific writer, and no poet has expressed himself more gracefully; but it is questionable if he has written much that will prove to be a part of the enduring literature of the English language. His most elaborate work is "Lalla Rookh." Perhaps after some minor poems, his "Irish Melodies" will be longest read. Light satire and humor were his characteristic veins. Among his satires the most noted are "The Fudge Family in Paris" and "The Two Penny Post Bag." Moore received large sums of money for his works, and his society was much sought after, so that he knew little of the privations that most authors have suffered. He died in 1852.

IS the last rose of summer

'TIS

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

MARCO BOZZARIS

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. Fitz-Greene Halleck was born at Guilford, Conn., in 1790. He had only the schooling his native town afforded. At the age of fifteen he entered his uncle's store as clerk, from here he went to a counting house in New York, then to a similar position with John Jacob Astor, in all forty-two years of mercantile life, and yet a poet. His most noted poems are those that follow. He was an intimate friend of Joseph Rodman Drake, and together they wrote the "Croaker" papers, a series of clever satires.

T midnight, in his guarded tent,

AT

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring;

Then press'd that monarch's throne-a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air;
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his last.
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout and groan, and saber stroke,

And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud,
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike! till the last arm'd foe expires;
Strike! for your altars and your fires;
Strike! for the green graves of your sires,
God, and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well;
They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd,- but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,